Michael Seidlinger: The Strangest

The peephole on doors is a lie.

I don’t like looking through the peephole.

I crawl toward the door. I listen to the hard knocking.

Didn’t realize I still had food in my mouth.

Hard to swallow, my mouth is dry.

“Hey Zack, it’s Ben!”

My knees hurt due to the hardwood floor.

“Ben — the super …”

I want to know what everyone said but I can’t find my phone.

My laptop is back on the kitchen counter.

More knocking. He’s not going away.

Yeah, I open it.

He talks first.

“Hey Zack, sorry to bother you but something’s come up. Something’s gone missing.”

I look at my hand. Yeah something’s missing.

He does all the talking.

The guy sounds concerned.

Tells me that one of the people in the building was robbed.

Tells me that the person that robbed that person took a lot.

He keeps telling me how valuable the stolen items are, and throws out a few prices. I can see him as a salesperson but he’s wearing the wrong clothes.

Tells me that it’s a problem because crime’s been up in the neighborhood lately and this might be a bad sign.

Then asks me if I know anything.

I say “No” because I think that’s true.

He doesn’t accept it though and keeps going on about the stuff. I really think he is a salesperson.

When asked, I tell him the same thing, this time shaking my head while also trying to look sad, “No.”

“Look, I know you don’t care, but this is important Zack.”

I don’t care?

I tell him, “It’s bad that those, umm, things are gone but I don’t know where they’ve gone.”

I can’t look him in the eye when I talk.

He’s good at it.

I’m usually good at looking at people right in the eye but, you see, something’s missing. Something’s really missing.

My right hand clenched, I can feel something drip down.

My fingernails dug into my palm. Red. It’s blood.

I’ll have to fix that later.

He sighs, “Well, okay, but look can you just …”

“Yes?”

“Just keep a look-out. All right? This is our home. We need to really care about the safety of our home.”

“Yes,” I agree.

He looks at me again, then shakes his head. A sigh, “All right, you take care, Zack. Game’s on in 30.”

I remember the game and I forget how he looked at me weird. I stand there staring into the hallway, looking toward the stairs where he disappeared. Seem to stand there for some time because two sets of people pass by, but only one looks in my direction. I close the door and tend to the dishes. They need to be cleaned or else they will never be clean.

The blood washes away and the cut isn’t very deep.

I listen to the people upstairs. There’s music and there are a lot of voices. I remember my livetweet at the same moment I stop and look around the apartment and feel just how empty it is.

After the dishes are done, there are two considerations:

Laptop or phone.

I choose the laptop.

My eyes skim the titles of the 7 browser tabs I have open.

Eyes skim everything I saved to drafts.

It’s gametime. I hear it all around me.

I hear the quiet of my apartment and something about it pulls me down.

It keeps me from starting my livetweet.

I type the words, Tomorrow , and wait until the feeling passes.

And then I start the livetweet.

It seems to go well. None of my friends/followers notice that what I livetweet is an entirely different kind of event.

I’m not sure what event it is.

I think about this — which means I look up from my screen and skim the place I’ve inhabited. The pull is gone, replaced by the actuality of what I see.

It’s clean and well kept.

I should feel proud.

Instead I have “tomorrow” and how the longer the word stays in mind the more it feels like yesterday and today. I wait for it to be something else.

I do my best to keep up but someone’s already won.

Beaten me to the post. I don’t know what to say or how to explain that we’ve had the same thought, felt what I imagine is something to feel.

It might not matter who said it.

It doesn’t.

This happens, then that happens, and soon “Tomorrow” makes sense.

By the time I fall asleep, I forget if anything became of this. What I am sure of is what is always there. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow meant work.

And work meant nothing had changed.

I had already forgotten about the funeral. Today would be long, and even longer would be the week. Workweek hell. Starting the workweek feels like nothing until you realize you have five days and it isn’t your time, they aren’t your days. It’s borrowed time. Time spent in advance. It is time owned by someone else, someone that usually isn’t anyone; it’s an entity.

I am five minutes early. I timed my commute, my walk, so that when I arrived barely anyone would be at the store. Store opens in 2 hours. I have time. Time to get in and get behind the counter. Get situated. And practice the things I’m supposed to say to customers.

Hallway is empty. False reassurance.

Boss is there when I get in. He knows my routine. He knows where I’ll be and when. It has been two years. Two years is enough for people to figure you out. Two years enough time for people to accept you?

There are 3 people in the employee break room. There aren’t usually 3 people in the break room. Someone new?

This is routine — and it doesn’t change, except for small disturbances, like when 2 became 3. A crowd.

I start texting but I won’t save it to drafts.

At work this feels so much like I’m not going to get through it. Feels so much like my last day and the shift ends and I end. Doom, death and all the grim stuff. It feels like I’m not awake. It feels like I’m stuck trying to figure out what this feels like.

The thing about work is that people have to be friendly.

Have to put on a grin, have to get along.

We’re employees.

The voice I hear when I walk in isn’t the boss’s, it’s a voice that I almost recognize. When I see where it came from, I understand why there are 3 people here instead of 2.

She remembers me.

I remember her. I feel a knot forming in my throat. When this happens I can’t talk very well.

Waking up to find that person that makes you so uncomfortable, like that person is you stuck out of time .

This one gets a half-dozen likes before I look away from the screen.

I don’t say hello because I have to put my lunch in the fridge.

This is what I always do. She should know. Why does she insist on making it difficult? Her voice is loud but the other two employees have something to talk about that doesn’t involve me, or her. They continue chatting and, looking at their faces, I think about a comment thread I had between only one other person. That person kept talking, kept commenting. I kept replying.

That person became a follower.

That person and I agreed with everything that was said.

Been a follower ever since.

“Zachary — you’re not going to believe it. It all happened so quickly! I was here early walking the mall before stores were open so I could plan out where to apply but then Jeffrey was sitting on one of the benches near the front of the store and saw me walking. He called me over and talked to me, but, but, but I didn’t even know! It’s crazy. I didn’t even know he was interviewing me for a second chance!”

The differences between rapport and a number of retweets.

I packed a sandwich today. I bought a bag of chips at the bodega on the way to work. They seem to know me at that bodega, which is why I go there. I don’t have to say anything. I don’t have to watch as they question my purchases. I purchase what I purchase, and sometimes they even know what I want.